Twenty-Three
by Momma Jude
Summary: Seven years after beginning work on spyrites, Jude had become widely successful. The world was recovering, and by all means he should have been happy. However, that was not the case, and it was becoming harder and harder to pretend it would all be okay.


"Are you _sure_ you're all right, Doctor Mathis?" Mary knelt down to pick up the handful of pages he'd accidentally knocked off the desk, the concern in her voice glaringly obvious. This was what, the third time she'd asked? He'd been trying so hard not to let it show how distracted he was, but that was easier said than done.

"Just an off day," Jude said dismissively, forcing the faintest hint of a smile in an attempt to assure her he was being honest. "I'll be fine; I'm just a little tired." Alvin, Leia, Balan, and now even his assistant… they could probably all see right through the empty excuses at this point.

He needed to pretend they believed him. He needed _someone_ to believe. How many times did he have to say he was fine before it came true?

"If you say so." She was clearly not convinced, but she didn't push him again. She probably realized it wasn't worth it; he'd always been stubborn when it came to things like that, anyway. "I'll clean up for you, so you can go home and rest."

"All right." He exhaled loudly. "Thank you."

Tired. That was it, in some sense. He was tired, _exhausted_ , and the work he once loved, the family he knew he should visit more often, his dearest friends, all they did was haunt him, wear on his mind even more. His life had become a restless dream from which there was no escape, and it was becoming harder and harder to deal with it.

The worst part was that he knew that all he had to do was pick up his GHS and any one of his friends would drop everything to hear him out. He could at least try to express this to _someone_ ; maybe they could help. He scolded himself mentally as he threw his bag over his shoulder and began on his way out of the fortress. There was no reason for him to isolate himself this way, but he still couldn't stop at this point.

He couldn't make them deal with this because it simply wasn't their problem—Leia and Alvin had their own family to attend to now, and though Balan was a friend he was still more of a work associate than anything, and he knew if he went to his parents his father would find some way to pin the blame on his involvement with the spyrite project. Besides, they shouldn't have to try to understand what was going on in his head when he was so unhelpful in explaining. They shouldn't have to be bothered with what he's going through, because when was the last time he'd really been there for them? For seven years, he'd been poring over his research like a madman, missing birthdays and holidays, almost a _wedding_ ; even if they did somehow stay in touch, it was no thanks to him. If he couldn't support them, it wasn't fair to take advantage of their kindness.

As the young man stepped outside, thankful that none of his colleagues were around to see him quite so shaken, he took a deep breath. Usually he welcomed the walk from Helioborg back to Trigleph when he had something on his mind, especially now that the greenery had started to flourish again, but try as he might to perk up even just a bit his thoughts always seemed to settle on the same thing: he'd worn out his usefulness to the world.

Hell, he couldn't even be bothered to start a conversation with the people he dared to call his friends.

Not unlike the stretch of land from the fortress to the city, neither the bustling streets of the city nor the empty silence of his apartment offered any solace from the nagging thoughts racing through his mind, not that he would have expected them to. Around others he was an anxious wreck anymore, as if every one of them were ready to point out to him his flaws as they passed by; on his own he didn't stand a chance fending off dangerous thoughts. Well, maybe it was better to say he was _always_ alone, as of late. It certainly felt like that.

He dropped his bag on the floor without care, not bothering to turn on the light. What was the use in it? He knew himself—or at least, he knew whatever it was that he'd become; he'd probably be asleep soon, anyway. It was the only way to escape those feelings.

The boy shook his head, slinking into the kitchen. He hadn't done the dishes in days, and he wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant smell which resulted from it. What was he even doing, trying to live like this...? But even with the disgusting sight, he assured himself he should rest first and then get to it later.

Always _later_. As if he'd earned his rest just by showing his face at the lab, or just by waking up. It wasn't like he really _did_ anything. All he was capable of doing was just _being alive_.

 _Tomorrow will be better._ For the longest time, that had defined his very way of thinking. But his tomorrow was over. He'd traveled the world, helped save it twice _._ He'd ventured so far as the very core of the spirit realm and back. Where was he to go to escape himself for a while? Hamil, maybe, but even then, how relaxing could it really be?

It somehow always came back to _her_ , Milla Maxwell, his hero, his love. Jude had given up on the idea of her returning long ago, much less of ever really being with her, but she still occupied his thoughts every day. For a long time, she was his freedom from it all, his fantasy, his escape from the harsh reality of his life, but now, she just acted as a cruel reminder of how far he'd fallen. He'd done his best to enact their plan, and he'd succeeded in that much, but now he was just… just _done_.

If she saw him like this, the spirit would probably be disgusted.

The thought crossed his mind to go to sleep before things got any worse in his head, but what good would it do? He still had to wake up in the morning, do it all again. That wasn't what he _really_ wanted.

He tried not to think about it, but it was obvious what the real solution was. Before he knew it, he found himself peering into the cutlery drawer, absently running his finger along the cold flats of a few of the larger knives. He wouldn't want to leave a mess like that, though. Too gruesome. Not bothering to close the drawer, he withdrew his hand, turning his attention to the bathroom. Even from this angle, the medicine cabinet was in plain view, its door left hanging open still from the last time he'd been in it.

Jude knew there was a good chance it probably wouldn't work, but after the initial pain, maybe he could just drift off for real this time. It was worth the risk. Maybe if he washed it down with a drink that would help; he didn't like alcohol, but sometimes forgetting was the only way to keep going, so he kept some around. For a moment the boy considered just trying to wash his problems away again, to partake in one night of incoherent but not nearly as unpleasant thoughts, but that was the coward's way out this time. He'd been running away for so long, hurting himself and dragging the others around him down, too. This was his chance to free everyone from that.

He didn't pay much mind to what containers he was pulling from the shelf. There was an almost ungodly amount of naproxen—he would take as many as he physically could, he decided—and a slew of other drugs from over-the-counter relief medications to a stash of paroxetine from ages ago when he'd been convinced to consult a doctor by Leia which he'd forgotten about. It had helped a bit, but of course, he couldn't be bothered to remember it then. Too much effort, not enough return.

There was a chance it would help him now, at least, he thought with a grim smile.

Taking his findings out to the kitchen, Jude dropped them haphazardly on the counter before opening the cupboard above him and grabbing a bottle of bourbon from the meager collection. He probably had acquired it for a time when Alvin had come to visit, but it would serve him decently now. Or at least, he hoped it would.

Last time he'd considered this, he'd been hesitant. He recalled vaguely the sense of guilt he'd felt at the idea of his friends seeing him… it was much fainter this time, though. They would be fine without him. They would be _better_ without him in the long run. He just didn't want to think about what would happen if this failed.

As if it would ensure the finality of it, the young man felt inclined to leave some kind of message for them, some final words to hopefully put his loved ones at ease. Even just a simple "goodbye" or "I'm sorry". He heard his GHS ring at that particular moment, though he didn't bother to look at it. Instead, it just continued to sound in his pocket as he rummaged about the cluttered drawers for a piece of paper and a pen. It was probably Leia; she called a lot, but he rarely answered. _"Sorry, I was busy,"_ he would lie later on. _"I didn't have the GHS on me."_ She was always frustrated, but understanding.

He hoped his friends could understand this, too, even if it took some time.

Discovering a small notepad, he scratched the pen over the surface until the ink started rolling again. "I'm sorry," he wrote, mouthing the words as he did. Suddenly that felt so small, insignificant. After so many years of their help, their love, he had to say at least something more, didn't he?

Wracking his brain for a way to put his feelings into words, his tears overflowed as he finally scrawled out,

 _I'm so sorry I couldn't say goodbye in person. I tried to stay strong like you all said. I did for a long time. I just couldn't do it anymore. I tried._

 _I love you all so much. Thank you for everything._

 _-Jude_

It still wasn't much, not nearly _enough_ to convey what he felt, but it was all he could do. They deserved so much better, but this… at least it would be the last time he disappointed them all.

Jude placed the scrap of paper on the kitchen table—the only clear surface in the room at the moment—and swallowed hard, face contorting with a sob when he set his sights back on the target. This was really it; this was the end. When this weight was off his shoulders, it would be for real. He would be free.

And, repeating that over and over in his mind, trying to block out the instinctual thoughts of self-preservation beckoning him to stop, the young man began with his task, his throat burning as he swallowed one flavorless tablet after another. Each shot of alcohol he drank only amplified the pain.

Jude's head was spinning. His stomach retched, but he choked the vomit back down, his whole body numb and shaking by the time he was done. He would just walk, or crawl, to his bed, lie down. He was so heavy.

It felt like only a few minutes passed. Tired, he was tired. He wanted to sleep… he could escape the pain if he slept. His eyes shut; another spasm shook his body; at some point, he fell unconscious.

It was so easy to die. No more suffering, no more fake smiles. Just silence.


End file.
